James Craig - Acts of Violence

‘Ye-es?’ The man sounded more than a little drunk.

‘I was wondering if I could have a quick word with Elizabeth. Bit of a work-related emergency.’

‘She’s not here,’ he mumbled. ‘She’s on shift.’

Perfect. That was a better result than he could have hoped for. ‘OK, I’ll call her at work. Sorry again to have phoned you so late.’

‘OK. No problem.’

Ending the call, Carlyle found a number for UCH on his BlackBerry and phoned the hospital. After what seemed like an eternity, he was finally put through to Dr Elizabeth Crane. She listened patiently while Carlyle explained the nature of Umar’s injury, without going into any of the details regarding how it happened.

‘I’m not on A amp;E,’ she responded, taking the matter in her stride, ‘but I’ll see what I can do. All the usual paperwork will have to be done, of course, and the police have to be informed immediately. But then again, you are the police, so we’ll take that as read.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

‘I suppose Helen knows what you’re up to?’ Elizabeth Crane asked finally. ‘Out all night playing cops and robbers. I don’t know how she puts up with it.’

‘It’s a living,’ Carlyle laughed. ‘She would get pissed off if I was under her feet the whole time.’

‘Ben’s the same,’ she confided. ‘He likes his space.’

And his booze, Carlyle mused. As his eyelids began to droop, he thanked her again. Dropping the phone back in his pocket, a sign flashed by, telling him that they were only twenty-three miles from London. Heading in the right direction, he thought, and promptly fell asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

After dropping Umar off at UCH and squaring things with Elizabeth Crane, it was almost 5 a.m. by the time Carlyle finally made it home.

‘Bloody hell,’ Helen mumbled as he crawled into bed, her voice deep with sleep, ‘you are really late.’

‘Sorry.’

‘S’OK. Just try and get some rest. I’ve got to be up early.’ Letting an arm drop across his chest, she immediately resumed her gentle snoring.

For a while, all that Carlyle could do was stare at the ceiling. After dozing fitfully in the car, he felt quite awake. Umar was being patched up before being sent home in a taxi. According to Dr Crane, the patient should rest – which apparently meant that he should take at least a fortnight off work. Knowing his sergeant, Carlyle expected that it would no doubt get stretched into three weeks, or even a month. He wondered what this latest turn of events would mean for Simpson’s investigation into what he’d come to think of as ‘the willy pictures’, or ‘Willygate’. Getting shot in the line of duty probably wouldn’t do his sergeant much good when faced with several counts of inappropriate behaviour of a sexual nature.

Bloody Umar.

Eventually he let his breathing fall in step with Helen’s and closed his eyes, confident that sleep would come in due course. All he needed was a couple of hours’ rest and then he would be up and at ’em.

It was throwing-out time in Camden and a small crowd had spilled out of the Fristock Arms, gathering behind the tape to watch the firefighters clean up the mess. Some yummy mummy would find her Chelsea tractor missing in the morning. Standing at the end of the alley, Crew Commander Dave Wharton watched the smoking wreckage of the Porsche SUV and shook his head. What a waste of a great motor.

‘Bloody kids,’ someone grumbled. ‘That’s the second one this month.’

Third, actually, Wharton thought.

‘I hope they’re fully comp,’ a woman shouted, prompting a round of drunken laughter.

Wharton took a couple of steps forward, putting a bit more space between himself and the rubberneckers. Where are the bloody police? he wondered. They should be moving these people on, not to mention checking where the vehicle had been stolen from.

Tuning out the voices behind him, the fireman watched his crew going about their jobs. Next week, they would be on strike. The dispute was over pensions being cut back. Wharton had voted to go on strike too. He didn’t particularly see the point, but when the guys went out, you went out. If you didn’t, working together afterwards would be impossible. When they came back to work, everyone would simply go on a go-slow and it would take for ever to get anything done. Already, he had started cutting back on his spending in anticipation of the loss of income. Next year’s holiday was on hold and his daughter’s riding lessons were under serious threat. The financial belt-tightening wasn’t going down too well at home, but there was no way around it.

One of his men, Lewis Rotherby, a young lad from somewhere out in the badlands of Essex, finished hosing down the car and popped open the boot. Standard protocol. Wharton nodded approvingly. Lewis was a good lad. Would make a decent fireman. Just wouldn’t have any money when he retired.

At that moment, Rotherby dropped the hose and wheeled away, puking the contents of his stomach over the cobbles.

The drunken chatter went up a notch as Wharton reached for his phone.

Opening his eyes, the inspector squinted at the green LED display of the clock on the bedside table: 3.15 p.m. ‘Shit.’ Sitting up in bed, he considered his options. Having slept for the best part of ten hours, he could head into the office and try to salvage something of the day, or simply say ‘fuck it’ and try again tomorrow. After thinking about it for several moments, he decided on the latter.

By the time Helen got home, just after 6.30, he had been to the gym, done some shopping at Tesco and even emptied the dishwasher.

Hovering in the hallway as she walked through the door, Carlyle brushed off her surprise at his presence. ‘I thought we might go out for dinner,’ he said, taking her coat. ‘Alice said she’ll come too.’

‘To what do I owe this honour?’ Helen’s eyes narrowed. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ Carlyle said hastily, discomfited by his wife’s ability to make him feel guilty at every turn. ‘I just thought it would be a nice idea, that’s all.’

‘Yes, why not?’ Clearly still suspicious, Helen slipped past him, heading for the bathroom. ‘Just give me a minute and we can get going.’

After much debate, they decided on an Indian next to the Royal Opera House. It was part of a chain, but Alice liked it – the place had a nice, busy atmosphere, it was reasonably priced and the service was prompt and friendly. Hitting the post-work rush hour, they had to queue for ten minutes but were finally rewarded by a table next to the window. Waiting for the drinks to arrive, Carlyle watched as a group of workmen manoeuvred a series of massive sets out of the Opera House and into the back of a large lorry. After spending most of the day in bed, he felt unusually relaxed; successfully parking the cares of the night before, safe in the knowledge that they would be there waiting for him when he returned to his desk tomorrow.

Helen followed his gaze. ‘There’s a new production of La Traviata coming up. It’s supposed to be good. I was thinking of taking Alice, if you’d like to come.’

‘Not really my kind of thing,’ he said immediately.

Alice looked up from the copy of Maus , the graphic novel about the Holocaust, which she had brought along for a little light reading at the dinner table. ‘Peasant,’ she teased him.

Carlyle smiled graciously. ‘You are too kind, my dear.’ Just then, the waitress arrived with their drinks, saving him from further abuse. He took a mouthful of his Kingfisher lager, and Alice took a gulp of her Coke and returned to her book.